The autumn soil succumbs , having have given graciously of her womb ;
She slowly surrenders at last to the slumber of the tomb,
As the winter constellations in legions form ;
And the lifeless leaves hang with dark and stark forlorn.
The sheep from their mountain pastures descend ;
And the hillside farmers go forth their tattered fences to mend .
The sun she rises low and dips lower by the day
And shadows longer grow across the sodden clay.
The exuberance of the year is dying ;
And summer birds are to their winter migrations flying;
And the boughts with dew are sighing
But all is with the pendulum of nature complying.
The chestnuts are falling all along the lane ;
And my moods unto SADS they yield again ;
That wretched curse of both the mad and the quite sane,
And how I wish these thoughts were just inane.
But natures Soul must rest and replenish,
So it can bring again a spring with joyous relish:
And the world must pass to reluctant slumber
These early wistful days , of superanuated October.